


The White Dragon

by Paige242



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Daenerys Targaryen Lives, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-21 05:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19996354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paige242/pseuds/Paige242
Summary: Queen Daenerys decides that her nephew must help consolidate her power over the north.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This diverges from the final episode- in this story, Daenerys took the throne and Jon has reluctantly stayed loyal.  
> To make it slightly more believable, let's say that (while there were casualties), she did not entirely burn King's Landing during her takeover. She has, however, become somewhat tyrannical and rules more through fear than Jon had hoped.  
> There was no Jon/Daenerys romance.   
> The north is not independent but Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell.

There was to be no joyous feeling of victory at the end of this war.

The dead had been vanquished, their enemies had been defeated and the Dragon Queen had taken her throne.

He had fought for all of this, played a central role in every battle and maneuver.

The future was supposed to bring peace and happiness. And yet, Jon felt as though a dark and twisted path still lay before him.

So much had been lost in this fruitless game. So many people he had once held dear.

And Jon had lost himself as well.

For months he had felt like a forsaken wanderer, unsure of his very being. It had been nearly a year since Sam and Bran had told him of his true lineage but the sting of that unwelcome revelation had not yet faded. How could it, really? His Aunt seemed determined to remind him of it at every possible moment, her face often twisting into a tight smile as she watched him balk before her.

He had supported her throughout the great war, forsaken his own (more direct) claim to the Iron Throne. Power had never been what he wanted and Jon had hoped to return to a quiet life once all of their foes had been overcome.

But Queen Daenerys had other plans, it seemed.

She had happily allowed him to give up his claim (he hated to think what might have happened to him and his loved ones if he had not) but even this had not freed him from her clutches. They were the last of the Targaryens, she liked to remind him, and it was important to her that their house be rebuilt for the ages. The Baratheon dynasty had shaken their power but her return marked a new age.

A resurgence.

And she needed her nephew to secure her legacy.

Despite his desire to live his life as a humble Snow she had told the world of his parentage. Made sure that every man, woman and child in Westeros knew who he truly was. Whispers followed him wherever he went, especially in his beloved North where his father’s family had little support.

The white wolf had become the white dragon in the eyes of many there. And their respect had twisted into suspicion and spite. Winterfell still felt more like him to him but he knew he would never truly be welcomed again. Despite his mother’s name and his northern appearance, he was nothing but a Valyrian outsider to these proud and insular people.

He was Aegon Targaryen now. Jon Snow had faded into nothing but a falsehood and a lie.

These past months it felt as if the world was falling in around him but he had little choice in what lay ahead. His new status, counterintuitively, seemed to bring with it even less power. The Queen had her dragons, the two that had survived the war. And that meant that meant that she could bend all of those around her to her will. King’s Landing had fallen to their knees upon her arrival. She had shown the power of her beasts, burning many despite Jon’s pleas that she lead with mercy. Daenerys was not yet her father, his grandfather, but he had seen flashes of madness in her during her rise. He often lay awake at night wondering if he should have backed another. Perhaps even Queen Cersei would have managed a more merciful peace. But he had believed in her when they had first met and it was too late to turn back now. To speak of doing so would be treason and, after all her had witnessed, he was simply too worn to spark another war. His parents and their forbidden love was the reason for this entire forsaken game and he felt a duty to end it all, no matter now precarious the newly established empire might be. 

At least there was no more bloodshed. Not now.

Not as long as they all obeyed.

Not as long as he obeyed…

“Nephew.”

She nodded towards him in acknowledgement from her chair beside the roaring fire as he approached. Winter was ending, but the North was still colder than what the Dragon Queen preferred and she had spent most of her trip stationed here.

The quarrels of the northern lords were of little interest to her and she had sent him to sit on Lady Stark’s council as a royal representative in her stead. It should have been a familiar and comforting task for the young man who had once been King of these walls, but each day simply served as a gut-wrenching reminder of how much had changed. Sansa was their leader now, a true child of Ned Stark, and his every move was met with scorn and distrust.

Sure, the lords were wise enough not to disrespect him outright. But the dragons which had circled the castle since their arrival were the only reason for that. And he knew them all well enough to recognize their deep resentment and distaste for the “foreigner.”

He wished, more than anything, that he could reassure him of his devotion and loyalty but that also would have been unwise. And they probably would have scoffed at his efforts anyway. His Aunt had forced him to arrive on Rheaegal’s back, forced him to attend all formal events in Targaryen black and red. She had made him present himself as something he had no desire to be but Jon was helpless to protest. She was their Queen, and the mother of Dragons. The beasts may have been found of his Targaryen blood but he was not their mother. Even he could not overtake her.

“Your grace.” He replied with a slight bow, doing his best to keep his voice neutral.

Inside, he was quaking with nauseating emotion but he refused to let it show. He was determined to face his fate without protest.

If he complied perhaps her grip on him would loosen, even slightly. This arrangement may not have been what he wanted, but at least she would no longer be behind him at every move. She was to leave him in the north soon and maybe, over time, he would manage to build back a sliver of trust with the people he still cared for most fervently.

His aunt may have tried to mold him to her will but, underneath it all, he was still a Stark.

The queen drummed her fingers against the arm of her ornate wooden chair as she surveyed him. She looked even more intimidating and regal in the flickering light. It seemed excessive to him, but she insisted on bringing her dragon throne with her wherever she went and his eyes lingered on the beautifully carved dragons which danced above her silver head.

She gestured towards the chair in front of her—the second throne of dragons—a piece she had commissioned especially for him. It was not adorned with the glimmering jewels of her own but the effect was still largely the same. It was a seat fit only for a Targaryen and he reluctantly took his place with a hidden sigh.

He wondered if he looked like the imposter he felt he was or if, perhaps, he was more like her than he allowed himself to acknowledge. His colouring may have been dark and northern, but many said he had his father’s face.

A Valyrian face.

The face of a dragon. 

“I trust that you are ready, Aegon.” She said, ending the long pause. Her eyebrow raised as she continued to watch him. As smug and confident as she always was.

He swallowed, his throat already painfully dry. “As ready as I can be.” He replied, trying not to focus on what lay ahead.

But that was an impossible task. He knew how this day would end and he knew he had no choice.

The Queen gave him a crooked smile. “Really?” She pressed, a hint of amusement in her voice. “You look as if I am sending you to your death, dearest nephew. As if giving you a beautiful wife in this climate you seem to love is some sort of punishment.” Daenerys paused, shaking her head. “Perhaps you are simply incapable of happiness.”

“With respect, I have voiced my objections to the union,” he reminded her carefully. Perhaps it was unwise to recall the tense conversation which had taken place before their trek to the north but he was unable to fully mask the truth. He would do what he must, but that did not mean it was what he desired. He had no trouble with the Queen knowing that. “I grew with Sansa as a sister and none here support this match.”

Daenerys let out a short scoff.

“It doesn’t matter to me what these quarrelsome lords support,” she noted, brushing her hand through the air dismissively. “I am their queen and I will secure my hold over the north as I see fit. I want a Targaryen on the seat of Winterfell and you will ensure that this comes to pass.”

It took all his strength to supress a shudder. As much as he did want to stay here it felt horrible to do so for such a nefarious reason. She had brought him there as her pawn and she had made it entirely clear that it was his duty to breed. The dragons were the only children she would ever have and, if he did not, the Targaryen line would end with them.

Jon would have been happy to see this come to pass. Perhaps his own father had not been the worst of the lot, and he did not mean to disrespect that memory, but his house had brought such ruin to the kingdoms. Dragons, blood and madness were their legacy and it was not something he ever wished to pass on.

The Queen was the only one in Westeros who desired a continuation. And he was the key to this success, as much as he hated the thought.

She would force him to do what she could not. If he resisted, Winterfell would be nothing but ash.

“Besides,” Daenerys continued, “Lady Sansa is not your sister.”

His stomach churned.

“A union of cousins is not customary in the north.” He pointed out, despite knowing it would do no good.

His cause was a lost one, but he owed it to Sansa to at least try to make his aunt see. She accepted what had been decreed but he knew she had no desire to marry him. Secretly, this stung him too. He hated the manner in which this had been forced but, if he was being entirely honest, he felt that a far worse match could have been made.

They cared for each other deeply, even now, and that was a good start.

“You are not of the north, Aegon.” She pointed out with another smirk as he shifted uncomfortably in throne of dragons. “And need I remind you what our family has done to keep our bloodline pure over the centuries?”

He did not miss her emphasis on the word “our.” Blood bound him to the Queen and there was nothing he could do to change that.

“Besides, I see how you look at her,” the queen noted knowingly. He felt his discomfort swell. “Unable to resist a Stark girl, just like your father.”

His mouth fell open at her unexpectedly perceptive remark but there was no chance for him to reply. There was a gentle tap on the door and he watched as Daenery’s face instantly brightened. He had seen that look many times before during these past several months. It was the expression that crossed her face every time she felt that victory was near.

“It is time.” She said, standing up and taking several long strides across the room. He noticed for the first time since his entry that she was wearing her formal attire, already prepared for the evening that lay ahead. “You must dress.”

Jon was about to suggest that he go back to his chambers where had had set out a simple black ensemble which he had deemed acceptable for the occasion. His aunt had planned a large and elaborate ceremony, but he had never been one for pomp and circumstance.

Unfortunately for him, it seemed that she would not even grant him one simple choice on that night.

Before he could say a word, she had pulled a large chest towards the centre of the dark room and unlatched the lid. Even from several paces away, he could see fabric in the unmistakable Targaryen red.

“Come.”

Despite his internal protest, he came. Cursing himself silently for so easily bending to her every whim. At every moment, he could sense the dragons circling above.

“I thought I might wear black. Something simple.” He tried, fruitlessly.

But the Queen refused to hear it.

“Nonsense.” She rebuked him instantly, violet eyes flashing in the firelight. “This is a union of two houses and the importance of that must not be downplayed.”

Daenerys reached down, her fingers pulling aside the fabric to reveal what she had chosen for him. Despite its undeniable beauty, Jon felt another wave of nausea wash over him as he tried to picture himself presented in such a way. She had forced him to wear the three-headed dragon before.

Of course she had.

But this… 

“It is a perfect replica of your father’s,” she told him, smiling down at the ruby-encrusted armour which lay in the chest. “I had it commissioned for you before we left king’s landing. I felt it an appropriate way to display our pride and strength.”

For a moment, Jon did not hear an ounce of manipulation or malice in her voice. In fact, she seemed genuinely awed by the sight of the intricate breastplate. The dragons were artfully embossed, large and proud on the front, red jewels surrounding them in a flurry of dazzling colour.

The significance of this item was not lost on the young man.

For a brief second, he found himself picturing the precious gems scattering into the water. Dripping like blood from a fallen prince.

“My father,” he began, his voice much more hushed with emotion than he had intended. “Robert Baratheon—he killed him wearing this.”

It was a storey that had become legend. The stag slaying the dragon and taking the throne. Jon had grown up hearing it told, long before he had known of his father’s identity.

Needless to say, it had taken on a new tone for him since the revelation.

In one swing of the hammer he had lost any chance of ever knowing his father. This may not have been the life he wanted, or a house he felt affinity to, but the little boy inside of him still yearned to know the man. 

A silence hung in the air as the queen reached down and gently stroked the armour once more. Despite it all, it felt as if they could both share a sadness over this thought.

“He did.” Daenerys stated, finally looking up towards him. “But he did not bring an end to House Targaryen.” 

For a second, Jon could have sworn that he felt a flash of pride but he quickly brushed it away.

No.

He was of the north, no matter what his aunt said. No matter who his father was.

He had been raised by Ned Stark and this was not who he wanted to be. Not who he had been raised to be.

He could already feel the hateful gazes of the northern lords. And, worst of all, he could picture the look of sadness and revulsion on Sansa’s face.

“We are in Winterfell, it feels inappropriate to present myself in such a way.” He tried to make her see but he already knew all hope was lost.

The Queen, of course, would hear none of it.

“It feels inappropriate to present yourself in such a way?” She hissed, her voice suddenly dangerously low. Jon knew he had nearly crossed a line. “You are a Targaryen, as much as I am,” his aunt continued, taking a step forward with narrowed eyes. “You will present yourself as your father’s son and my kin and if you _dare_ to show this ridiculous reluctance you seem to feel about that then you know that my punishment will be swift. You know what happens to those who cross me, _Aegon_. Do not be a fool.”

Jon felt his jaw clench uncomfortably but he chose not to reply. He did know what happened to those who turned against her—he had seen it far too many times already.

It was true that she needed him to secure her dynasty, and that meant he could probably get away with more than most. But he suspected that his defiance would be punished not with his own death, but with the death of those he loved most.

As she had said many times before, she cared little for the North and he knew that she would not shed a tear at its demise.

He had to play the game. For the sake of his mother’s people.

For the sake of Bran and Arya.

And Sansa.

They were the only true family he had left, no matter what his aunt said. He would do anything to protect them from her wrath.

Even this.

Wordlessly, and without looking towards her, he bent down and picked up the glimmering red armour. He had been to war more times than he cared to remember and fastening it on was second nature to him. Despite its newness, it fit perfectly.

Perhaps she had been adept enough to measure his Stark armour before she had commanded Drogon to melt it with his flames. Upon his arrival at King’s Landing she had taken it upon herself to burn all vestiges of his Stark past, slowly replacing them with items which marked him allegiance to his father’s house.

This was just the latest and most elaborate addition to her crusade.

Complain as he might, he had to admit that Daenerys was a woman who understood the importance of symbols. 

He had been well and truly claimed and he was powerless to stop it.

When he was done, Jon finally looked up to face her widening grin.

“Yes, that will do nicely.” She declared, pausing briefly to brush her fingers across several of the rubies before turning back towards the chest. Without another word, she pulled out the long red fabric and draped it across his shoulders. She secured it to his shoulder plates and allowed it to drop gracefully towards the floor.

Even though he could no longer see her face Jon could still feel her smile.

“Look, nephew.” He heard her say softly, a tone of victory returning once more. “Look at what you have become.”

Although his head was screaming at him to turn away, Jon allowed her command—and his own curiosity—to get the better of him. He took several reluctant steps across the room, stopping when he reached the long mirror that had been placed in the corner of her chambers.

He could see his familiar face and his dark northern curls, but the sight before him still seemed surreal. Jon Snow stood, looking with numb confusion at the sight of Aegon Targaryen before him. A long red cloak which matched the red dragons on his chest. His sword strapped at his side the one that had once belonged to Prince Rhaegar himself.

Perhaps the man he had never known would have been proud. There was a slight, albeit disquieting, comfort in that thought.

But Jon wondered what the man who raised him would say if he could see him now.

Although he tried to push the thought away, he imaged Ned Stark looking upon him in confusion and shame. The thought of that disapproval shook him to the core.

He felt the weight of the amour bearing down on him as his aunt approached, a delicate crown of dragons upon her head and a second ornate adornment clutched tightly in both hands.

Jon barely flinched as she reached up, placing his crown.

His entire body had now gone numb.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sansa was no longer the delicate and naïve girl she had once been. She had been stoic as he approached, but he knew her well and he knew she was repelled by the sight of him.

Arya, always the more impulsive the two, had shaken her head in clear disapproval, but Sansa had simply looked ahead. Her blue eyes refusing to meet his.

He had never expected to be married, especially not like this.

But his heart still broke at the coolness of her demeanour. He had secretly wished for her approval, but he had not expected more. Their conversations since his arrival had been terse and businesslike. She knew they had no choice but to follow the Queen’s demands but it was apparent to him that she was not pleased. The North had been too crippled by the war to rebel and the people would not survive without support from the royal coffers so there was little choice, she had reasoned. 

She did not want to marry her cousin. A Targaryen pawn of the queen.

But, as she had astutely pointed out during one of their few private moments, at least she knew him and would not be married off to someone who would wish her harm, as she had been before.

She may have hated what Queen Daenerys had forced him to become, but at least she would now be safe. The north would survive and, with luck, they would be left alone.

_“Prince Aegon Targaryen and Lady Sansa Stark shall be forever bound by the bonds of matrimony.”_

It was proclaimed before the largest crowd he had ever seen gathered within these walls.

They had come from far and wide to witness this momentous event and the castle bells rang out in celebration. 

But, as far as Jon could tell, the only one to smile on that bitterly cold evening was the Queen herself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

She hardly spoke to him throughout the feast.

They had sat at the head table, formally thanking those who stepped up to wish them well and offer them tribute. She had been calm and poised. As elegant as she ever was. But she had had not even graced her new husband with a glance.

And that had caused a growing pit in the bottom of his stomach.

This was not how he wanted it to be and he wished that he could tell her so.

But Jon had done his best to play along as well. His aunt had seated herself at his side, beaming every time a northerner offered their begrudging allegiance to “Lord and Lady Targaryen, Prince and Princess of the realm.” Her mission had been accomplished, it seemed, and as much as it sickened him to think that his beloved home was now more firmly in her grasp, he hoped it meant that she would soon leave them be. Free to rule Winterfell as they saw fit.

Daenerys hated this place. To her, it was cold and dark and she craved the southern climes. Despite his current appearance, that was something Jon would never share with that side of his kin. The North would always be where he felt the most comfort, even now. 

She may have dressed him as a dragon, but there was still much of the wolf in him too.

Even if Sansa could no longer see it.

Even if she hated what he had become.

As they finally entered the private bedding chamber, she turned to him—her blue eyes flashing with unshed rage. It was the first real display of emotion he had seen from her all night and, despite the unpleasantness of it, it came as some relief. At least, it seemed, she could still be candid with him behind closed doors. Away from the Dragon Queen.

That was something, at least.

“Sansa, I’m sorry.”

Her eyes flashed again, catching the cold blue moonlight of the North as she strode towards him.

“You are?” She hissed back, letting out a quiet scoff. “For what, _Aegon_?”

She said the name with such venom that it caused a shiver to instantly run through him. It seemed so incredibly wrong coming from her lips. There was no doubt in his mind what had sparked her ire and he could only hope that, in time, she might see.

“Please, don’t call me that. Never call me that.” He whispered back, sadness etched on his tired face. 

She raised a red brow, clearly unperturbed. “What? Am I not allowed to call my new _husband_ by his name? It is a fitting one for a Targaryen prince, is it not? For a dragon.”

He closed his eyes briefly before looking down to follow her gaze towards the ruby-encrusted dragons on his chest. Jon would have given anything to be in his simple black garb right now, with a grey cloak draped around his form. But, as it was, he knew his arguments seemed hollow in such a façade.

He could not fight his case dressed as a Valyerain knight.

With a few rough tugs and the loud clatter, he loosened the armour at his sides and allowed it to fall carelessly to the stone floor. A small part of him felt guilt for his dismissive gesture, but some things were more important than the memory of his long-dead father.

The future mattered more than the past.

And he knew he would not survive in this new world without her at his side.

Finally feeling more himself in his plain tunic than he had all day, he stepped forward, brushing his hand against her shoulder briefly before she jerked back, as if burnt by his touch.

“Sansa,” he pleaded in a desperate whisper. “It’s me. It’s Jon. That hasn’t changed. And we both know why we have to play this game. I am doing this for you, and for the north.” She looked down, unable to meet his despairing gaze. “All my aunt cares about is pledges and symbols. She will leave us soon, now that she thinks the north is hers.”

“Isn’t it?” Came the bitter reply.

But Jon resolutely shook his head, glad that the privacy of the bedding chamber allowed him to speak more freely than he had been able to before. 

Even his aunt would not listen here, he was certain of that.

“As long as there is peace we will owe her nothing, Sansa. Don’t you see that? We have pledged our troops should the need arise—but aside from that, she will leave us be. You can rule all daily matters as you see fit. The north can prosper and the Queen will stay in the south, just as all rulers have done before her. How is this any different than the arrangement your father made with Robert Baratheon? Why must it be so bad?”

She paused for a moment, finally looking up and surveying his form. For a moment, he thought that he had made his point but the frown that grew on her face seemed to indicate otherwise.

Things could not be so simple.

“Symbols do matter.” Sansa finally replied, her anger now laced with an edge of defeat. “I agreed to this arrangement because I knew she could easily decree worse,” the woman paused, eyes flickering towards the discarded armour on the chamber floor. “And, I suppose, part of me forgot who you have become.”

He felt his gut churn, the sting of her implied rejection shaking him to his core.

Yes, things had changed. But must he really be so different in her eyes?

“We were never close as children,” she continued, letting out a short breath, “but I came to admire Jon Snow during the wars. He fought well, always loyal to our cause and the side of good. He was handsome and strong and I will admit that the girlish side of me had thoughts one should not have of a brother.”

Despite the continued sadness in her tone, part of him wanted to smile at the comment. She was just short of admitting that she had feelings for him. In truth, he had long since felt the same. Seeing her ride into Castle Black on that cold day many moons ago had caused a shift in him. The pompous girl who had followed her mother’s dislike of him had become a strong and beautiful woman, barely recognizable after their years apart. And once he had discovered that she was a cousin and not a sister, he had allowed certain impure thoughts to flicker through his mind as well.

This was a forced arrangement. Rushed and calculated.

But his aunt has been right to point out the trait he clearly shared with is father.

He could not resist a beautiful Stark girl.

They were alone in a bedding chamber now, lit by nothing but flicking candlelight. A bed beckoning warmly from the western wall.

Jon wanted nothing more than to take her there. Perhaps she even wanted the same.

But politics—symbols and names—had ruined it all.

“I have had such thoughts as well,” he admitted, wishing he could reach out and touch her soft cheek. But he knew such a move would be unwise. Far too much tension and sadness hung in the air between them and she continued to look upon him with an unsettling detachment.

“My thoughts were of Jon Snow.” She continued, letting out a bitter chuckle. “But it seems he is gone. I know nothing of this Prince Aegon, nephew of the Dragon Queen. And yet I am expected to bed a stranger and bear his Targaryen heirs.”

It felt as though his heart might burst at her words but he did his best to quell his bubbling emotions.

“Sansa, please,” He tried again, taking a cautious step towards her. “I am still me. I am _Jon_ , the man you have always known. I wanted this because I have loved you for many moons. Because I love the brilliant and strong woman I see before me. I want to be here. At your side, helping _our_ people. And this was the best way for us to be free. I understand why you are angry, and I too wish things could be different than they are. But names and symbols are nothing but details. We can still be happy, Sansa. There does not have to be a distance between us. You are my truest ally, and I want nothing more than to rule peacefully at your side.”

“With a crown of dragons on your head and your father’s name laying claim to the north.” She added with another quiet sigh.

For the first time that evening, he remembered the last vestige his aunt had adorned him with and he quickly reached out to pull the cursed item from his head. He realized how foolish he must have looked, claiming not to be a dragon prince with such a crown on full display. He tossed it onto the ground, as if it were hot to the touch.

Sansa scoffed with bitter amusement. “I wonder what father would say if he could see us now.” She mused as she slowly lowered herself into the simple chair which sat next to the fire. She gazed upon the flames for a long moment, apparently lost in thought.

For his part, Jon saw the flicker of a proud silver haired man in his mind’s eye before quickly forcing himself to imagine who she had truly meant.

Ned Stark.

The only man he had ever called father.

“I think he would be proud of who you have become.” Jon answered honestly. “Of your grace and strength.”

She nodded before allowing her expression to darken. “And yet I have ended the Stark’s claim to our ancestral home. A Stark no longer sits on the seat of Winterfell. I have married the kin of the Dragon Queen and she has already placed a throne of dragons in our great hall.”

It was true, his aunt had presented the chair to him as a wedding gift—a painfully clear symbol that she placed next to Sansa’s throne of wolves, uniting their two houses.

“For me, Sansa. Not for you. You will never have to sit upon such a seat, I promise. And you will always be a Stark.”

The woman scoffed once more at the farce of it all. “By blood but not by name.” She pointed out with clear disapproval. “I have taken your name from the bonds of marriage, as is the custom. Sansa Targaryen. It sounds so foreign on my tongue and it pains me to speak it out loud. The very thought makes me sick.”

It sounded strange to him too and he doubted he would ever think of her as anything but Sansa Stark. Just as he still thought of himself as Jon Snow.

But, in public, he knew what had already been decreed. 

“I need to be alone.”

It came as a whispered plea, her eyes now looking back towards the dancing flame. As much as he wanted to protest Jon simply nodded. He could feel the emotion radiating off of her and he felt it was the least he could do to grant her request after such a day. She had done her duty, performed it well, and he would not dream of forcing her to go any further. Perhaps one day she would forgive him for bringing them here.

He wanted nothing more than to see her smile at him, to hear her whisper Jon from her perfectly rosy lips.

But today would not be the day for that.

Perhaps that day would never come.

“Goodnight, Aegon. I trust you can see yourself back to your chambers.”

He swallowed roughly, the bitterness of her voice puncturing his very core.

“Goodnight, Sansa.”

_A Targaryen alone in the world was a terrible thing._


End file.
